The Jackal's Den
by Spades24
Summary: With the Plutarkian threat neutralised things have moved on for the mice and Charley. The bros drift away from Chicago to start a new life, only to find they get more than they bargained for. LATEST CHAPTER: 4
1. Knockout

Just something on the side, a request story in progress whilst I continue on with Scars. Enjoy. **Contains some bad language**.

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The Jackal's Den.

Chapter 1. Knock-out

The root beer just didn't taste the same here. It was ridiculous, he knew, but somehow the tap from which it flowed really did make a difference. It was the same brand, the same recipe, whatever. But the venue, and the guy filling his glass... it made a difference. Everything was different now. He was different.

Their whole lives were different.

He snorted into the froth on his glass as he picked up on the punch line to a badly told joke. It wasn't so much that he found it funny as the amusement he got from just how _un-funny_ it was. And the dead pan stares the audience were giving the so-called comedian.

But he knew they weren't really here for the lighter entertainment. They were just watching, playing along out of some kind of perverse courtesy. Even the guy on the stage knew he was just the warm up act.

He sighed, lost for a moment as his thoughts drifted elsewhere. If things hadn't panned out the way they did he could be somewhere else, doing something worthwhile... Not sat here waiting for his number to come up. His two bros would be thinking the same if they didn't have their minds occupied. Or their eyes. Somehow they seemed to attract a lot more attention than he did, and he knew it wasn't for their masculine looks or boyish charm.

The big guy... well the muscles helped, definitely and yes he was polite compared to the foul-mouthed runt at his side. They were all probably wondering if he was... _well-proportioned_. As for his other bro... well, he was just all talk, but he had a lot of guts too that no doubt made an impact on some level.

_I guess good looks count for nothing if your brooding. Probably best they keep away from me anyway._

It might also have something to do with the last few nights. His opponents hadn't even got a chance to bow out. And they probably never would again. He was top of the table now, at least until they asked him to square up against his older friend. Which they knew he wouldn't. They swore they never would, they were too close for that, they didn't want to ruin it. Each other was all they had now.

Now that they couldn't go home. Apparently saving a planet from an alien race hell-bent on destroying it counted for nothing these days. Not that he could really blame them, his comrades, for they had bigger troubles to deal with and they simply could not spare the manpower to get them back. They were low on ships, pilots, and fresh out of any other means of getting them there. And with Limburger booted right back to the cess pit he crawled out from... well there was no transporter either. They were stranded. And it was probably permanent. Communications between Earth and Mars had been down for over a year now, so for all they knew anyone who might miss them may even be dead, or captured, or just too darn busy to spare them a thought.

_Probably the latter, knowing Carbine. General Carbine. Duty first, yes sir._

Even the city that they had for a long while called home was more or less out of bounds now. No, the mayor hadn't kicked them out (they had saved his ass too many times for that to ever happen), they weren't wanted by the police, in fact they weren't unwelcome at all. Even she had said there was always a space for them if they needed it.

_She's too nice... but she knows it ain't ever going to happen. It's just not the same since he showed up._

Charley-girl. The lucky girl. As soon as that fat fish had been jettisoned from Chicago's sky-line for the last time she had finally been able to relax. All that work she had been stressing about finally got done. She got her house in order, her life in order. She was so happy to be free. It had been wonderful, really, but the time to enjoy it had been so short.

Just three months since their victory celebration she had herself a customer that she literally couldn't refuse. Wouldn't.

It's not like he was some sexy model, or a genius to rival her own brilliance. He was a pretty ordinary guy, who liked mechanics, dabbled in art, fascinated by science. He was her, but as a man, yet oh so much calmer. And so charming. He was everything his younger bro was not. Modest, thoughtful, kind. She had fallen for him so fast it made all their heads spin.

Six months since he knocked on her garage door and they were engaged. Two months later they were married.

_Charley never was one for waiting around. Life's too short, she said, and she really did mean it._

Danny Tucker. If he wasn't so damn good for her, and if she wasn't so happy, they might have actually been angry about the whole thing. It wouldn't have taken much to make him disappear, but they really weren't so low as to even think it. Especially not since he asked all three to be his best men. Turns out he didn't keep a large possy of his own to fill the position.

The wedding had been a small, quiet affair, and the honeymoon had been at a mechanical engineering conference in New York. _Figures_. Afterwards Charley resumed her life, plus one. Two weeks later they had said their goodbyes. Chicago wasn't the same without the Earth woman battling by their side, and it didn't feel right just dropping around to her garage whenever they felt like. The scoreboard seemed strange too. They could see her everywhere they looked, and it hurt them. Especially him. Vinnie.

_He pretends he's forgotten, put it all behind him, or whatever bullshit he comes up with. But we know he hasn't. _

False bravado was their bro's newest show. It appeared to work for him too, for he was never short of ladies hanging off him. Fur was all the rage it seemed.

"Hey bro... room for one more?"

Modo was always considerate of his alone time, but it was rare for the big grey mouse to be turned away.

"Sure. Left Vinnie in the viper's nest I see?"

The bigger mouse chuckled. Their white-furred bro was practically drowning in oestrogen-fuelled glory right now, and they knew he loved it.

"He can handle it. You ready for tonight?"

Ready. Always ready. This was his only outlet for his energy now and he was primed.

"Uh-huh. Wonder what they got for us this time? I thought we had been through just about everyone in the county already... maybe even the state. Getting sick of being tossed the dregs. It's just too easy... for us."

"I hear you. Maybe we're going national."

National, right. This little black spot on the southern borders of Minnesota. It wasn't exactly on the tourist trail, and if you happened to come across it you were crazy to stop and check it out. It was miles from civilisation. It was just what they needed.

The bar wasn't so foreboding on the inside, and regulars were practically family. You just had to get past that first hurdle. The one where the bartender pulled out his sawn-off shotgun from behind the counter and shoved it in your face, and the five or six muscle men you didn't even see when you stepped in just happened to appear behind you blocking any means of escape.

They certainly had made an impression that day. Three six-foot-plus bikers made of nothing but muscle, fearless, and well trained. Those bouncers didn't even know what hit them. After that they had been given the nod, three root beers, and a set of keys to the guest rooms.

"You honestly think anyone's going to come to a place like this? It must have taken some persuasion to get the locals in the ring with us, let alone those further out of town."

Modo scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Brings in business. You heard Tom, since we arrived he's never had so much money pouring through his till."

He was right. The bouncers had had to claim overtime.

The man on the tiny stage had taken his final bow, and the crowd were cheering. They were finally going to get what they'd come for.

"You boys better get out back. We're going to have a riot otherwise."

Tom, the inn keeper as he was known, wasn't too impressed with the stand-up comic either. He motioned for the three mice that it was time, and they nodded. Somehow Vinnie managed to free himself from the pile of lusting ladies to join them.

"Having fun, Vincent?"

The white mouse blushed. "Hey, just cos you're jealous..."

Throttle gave him a playful slap across the nose, and strode forward through the swinging door into the passageway behind the bar.

There were several doors down here. One for the kitchen, one to the guest rooms. There was a door into the single restroom for patrons to use. And at the end was a door into the locker room. An odd thing for a bar to have, but then this was no ordinary bar.

The three mice quickly changed into their kit. They were quite capable of doing this in their biker clothing, but as they didn't have continuous access to a laundrette they opted for a t-shirt/sweat pants combo, and bare foot. Their clothing already had a few nights worth of dirt plastered into the fabric, but it didn't matter. This was the last match for a while, Tom wanted a break to do some refurb on the place now he had some cash floating around his back pocket. He had told them they could earn their board by helping him out. They had accepted.

It was just another night as far as they were concerned. Out back, about two hundred yards down a gravel path, was where the fun all happened. The trees and bushes provided some privacy from anyone entering the bar at the front, although they didn't exactly sound proof the place. The ring was a rough structure of wooden boards about twenty foot in diameter, and behind it were stools and benches and hay bales for the punters to sit or stand on to watch.

There was plenty of betting. Now they were well known most of the locals put their money on the three mice. The out-of-towners always seemed to think otherwise. Or they had done. Some of the more regular visitors had quickly changed their minds about the trio of strange-looking Chicago boys.

Old Jim Jackson was one such man. After Modo had wiped the floor with his main player, who was easily twice the mouse's weight, he had started putting all his dough on whichever of the three bikers was in the ring. He got plenty of payouts. He was practically their sponsor now.

"You boys going to give me a good show tonight? I'm counting on you. I hear Flash is coming to town with some new recruits, and you know how good he is at finding you good competition."

"He ain't that good. Last time Flash brought us fresh meat we served him up like a quarter pounder." The tan mouse gave a wry smile at the old man. It was common knowledge that Jim was a retired sheriff, and this simply earned the man more respect. No one dared to cross him, just in case in decided to revert to his old persona of law-man.

"Well, you never know. Embarrassment ain't a good thing to a man like Flash. Watch your backs kids."

He needn't have worried though. Vinnie was first up, and the first man Flash dumped into the ring with him was lucky to get away with just the few cracked ribs and busted nose he received. The second challenger took a while longer, but he soon bowed out with his hands cradling himself between his legs.

There were no rules to this, other than no weapons. All bare fists, teeth, nails, whatever. A few of the punters complained about their tails though, so to make it fair they almost never used them. Not that they really needed to.

Vinnie had had his fill and stepped back to let the grey mouse in. Modo was more than happy to be joined by two young red necks, two randoms drifting by who just happened to have got wind of the place. They put on a good show, too, and the mouse indulged them and the crowd for nearly half an hour.

_He's too much of a softy. They're only kids and there's no way he would really harm them._

Throttle smiled as the two young men left the ring with little more than black eyes and bloodied knuckles. They even thanked his bro for not killing them. This wasn't unheard of, though, as practically anyone who came up against the giant muscle-clad mouse and lived to tell the tale were eternally grateful he had spared them.

Unlike me, he thought, where they run away and don't look back if I let them live.

"You're up bro. The main attraction."

"You say it like it's a good thing."

"Isn't it?"

Throttle shot his gentler friend a meaningful look. _You really think I like to hurt them?_

Flash had also saved his best talent for this match. Throttle stepped into the ring and leant back against the wooden boards, flexing his joints whilst he waited for his quarry. A minute later the man dropped down on the other side, and this time it looked at least like he might actually be a challenge. He was bigger than Modo, and more muscled. He also looked like he knew what he was doing. Brains behind the brawn. Dangerous.

_Great. Last night's going to be a treat, for someone._

The fight went on and on. The mouse had finally met his match as far as cunning and tactics were concerned – and yes there were tactics. As for strength, the man was the clear winner, but Throttle's smaller size, heightened agility and balance (thanks to that tail) evened it out. Neither managed to get in too many blows, but the whole thing was mesmerising. Like a dance. Two muscled men navigating the arena like a bird weaving through trees, ducking, dodging, lunging, retreating, never connecting, never falling.

Eventually the outsider got in a real punch, and it nearly took his wind away. He hit the dirt, gasping for breath, and for a brief moment it looked like the man was going to jump on him. If he had it would have been the end. Throttle rolled away just as the heavyset fighter came crashing down where had lain, and took the heartbeat of a moment to smash his fist into the back of his neck. A pressure point. A weak point.

The man was out cold and the crowd were stunned. After watching the two of them play around at not hitting each other, in just a few seconds the fists had flown and the match was over. Throttle had won again.

"Nice job cus. Reckon we're in for a bonus for that performance."

Vinnie was patting his friend on the back, not at all noticing how much it pained him.

"For heaven's sake bro, can't you let him catch his breath first." Modo had seen the bluish tinge to the tan-mouse's gums as he tried in vain to rake in the sweat-laden air in the vicinity of the ring. "You alright Throttle? He clocked you pretty good back then. Thought it was all over."

"Me... too..." Throttle gasped.

"Way to go boys, you really done me proud."

"Both of us. Great show."

Tom and Jim were shaking their hands now, leading them away from the crowd and back to the locker room. They had to give the punters some space to argue over their winnings, so now was the best time for them to tend to themselves.

"You better get yourself cleaned up. Some people are going to want to talk to you boys." Jim was chattering on, smiling, patting them on the back. Very paternal. Or like a sports coach.

"What about, Jim? Tactics?" Vinnie was curious. No one ever wanted to talk about tactics.

"Ha, you're so funny, kid. They'll be waiting for you so don't take too long. I don't care how pretty you think you are..." He was looking at Vinnie, who grinned. _That boy's got some ego, i'll give him that._

"Sure thing. Out back, or front?"

"They'll be wanting to get you boys drinks, you're thirsty right?"

"Hell yeah. See you out front in fifteen then." Modo gave him a nod and pushed open the locker room door. "Come on bros you heard the man. Better not keep our sponsors waiting."

The rest of the evening was filled with banter, and an endless supply of drink. These men that Jim had mentioned didn't spend the whole time asking them about fighting, which was good, nor did they ask them about their history, or what brought them to this worn-out shack of a bar in the first place. The whole time they just chatted, joked, and laughed, as if they had known them all their lives almost. And the drinks just kept on coming.

Tom knew better than to serve them anything other than root beer. It amused people that these three muscled bikers drunk nothing but, and no matter how hard they tried, offers of anything stronger were always, always turned down. Alcohol was not for them.

"If it's alright with you folks i'm calling it a night. Thanks for the refreshments, gents." Modo was yawning and stretching in his seat, before standing up to shake hands with the men and leave for his room. "I suggest you do the same, Vincent."

The white mouse giggled and lay his own head back on the table. "Nah bro... i'm good."

"I'll look after him. You go get some shut eye." Throttle glanced at the half-dazed figure prostrate on the little table, whose snout was resting in a sticky puddle of drying root beer.

"You sure bro..?" Modo dropped his voice to a whisper. "He's acting kinda weird."

Throttle nodded. It was probably just a sugar crash. Ten pints of root beer could easily do that to their smaller bro.

Fifteen minutes later Vinnie was staggering through the door behind the bar.

_Great. What a good impression we are making. These guys aren't going to want to sponsor someone who gets drunk on fucking root beer. _

"I'm sorry gents, seems my friends can't handle their soft drinks. Too much excitement for one night I guess."

The men were nodding sympathetically, but saying little. Either they were tired or...

_Are they waiting for something? _

"Uh, Jim mentioned something about you wanting to talk to us. I got the impression it wasn't just a social call. Business?"

"It can wait til morning, son. We just wanted to see you guys loosen up a bit." One of the men, dark haired, mid-fourties, slim built, finally spoke up in the now very quiet, very empty bar.

"Oh right. Sure thing. In that case, it's late and i'd better go get some rest too." _And check Vinnie's not puking his guts out all over Tom's carpets. _"See you in the morning then. Tom does an excellent breakfast."

They all nodded. Throttle stood up and left for the back passageway, and whilst he was eager to see if his younger bro was ok he couldn't help wondering. _Who were those people anyway... are they staying here or elsewhere?_ It didn't matter, really, Tom didn't get that many overnight guests. His boarding facilities were limited, and they had booked out almost all the rooms between them. The breakfast was good though.

The sound of retching from behind the locked door to the rest room made the mouse change his mind. He didn't like the smell of vomit any more than most people, so he turned for the locker room, and its back door to the outside.

_Oh man that mouse needs to learn when to just stop_.

Throttle sniffed the air, which was thankfully much fresher than it had been a few hours earlier. Several hours earlier. It must have been nearly 3am now.

He hadn't even noticed if Tom had closed the bar or not. He normally kept it open late on match nights, but even this was pushing it for him. Those last few drinks had been served by unseen hands as far as he was aware, which may or may not have been the inn keeper's.

_My head's pounding. Few minutes out here then bed I think._

Then he had the sudden urge to go check on his bike. He hadn't been out on her for a few days, and no doubt she would be missing the attention. Vinnie and Modo would tend to their own rides most mornings, but he preferred to take a stroll on his own two legs some days. It was a nice feeling, walking. He didn't do enough of it.

Tom had allowed them to stash their bikes in his own garage free of charge, though they all knew it was because they had fixed up his battered-looking truck when it wouldn't start one morning. And the next morning. It became a regular thing, really. Mutually beneficial, silent arrangement.

The garage was only a few hundred yards from the fight ring; the gravel path continued snaking through the vegetation to the little building, connecting to the main driveway which led out past the bar and onto the main road.

For some reason that path felt really long tonight. _Must be tired. My legs don't seem to want to work._

It wasn't just his legs. Where he had been hit his back was throbbing, and his breathing felt short and pained. His head was aching, and his eyes refused to focus. It was getting harder and harder for him to see where he was going, and yet he knew the garage was just in front of him, somewhere.

He managed to press on, stumbling almost, until the path widened out and the garage came into view. He paused for breath.

_Whoa... I must be way, way more tired than I thought. _

After a few minutes he realised he was staring at the blurred form of what looked like a smallish, deep-coloured van parked up in front of the garage building.

_Must be those men's truck, though Tom don't normally let visitors park back here. _

He could just about make out the outlines of some figures moving around by the vehicle. He had no idea what they were doing, they looked like they were just hanging out, but something told him to wait where he was. Aside from feeling like he would pass out if he took another step, his instincts were warning him to stay put and not interrupt whatever was going on over there. Not in his present condition, anyway.

He watched for a while, swaying unsteadily on his jelly-like legs. There were two people hovering by the van. Then there was a noise, the sound of a heavy door, and his large-lobed ears detected the soft grunts he had come to associate with fighting, hard labour, or heavy lifting.

From the far side of the inn, where he knew there was a service door, came three more faceless figures, all cloaked by the shadows of the night. Between them it looked like they were carrying something large and heavy. And white.

It was very dark, but even so it was obvious to him now what it was they were doing, and it made his churning stomach jam up hard into his throat.

_Holy shit. No!_

But something was wrong, and it wasn't just what he had just seen. He tried to take a step but the whole world was turning on its side. He felt like he were trying to scale a wall, scrabbling unseeing with his hands and feet, until he realised that he wasn't. He was face-first, flat on the deck, dirt in his mouth, completely unable to even raise his head to breathe. His tail thrashed about behind him, trying to find something to hold onto to pull him to his feet, and coming up empty. It was no good. He couldn't raise himself. And his voice was muted by all the dry compost gagging his face.

As he lay there panting the soil, he could just about make out a change in the dim star-lit light ahead of him. The figures in the dark must have heard him cry out as he fell, and were slowly coming towards him. He choked, and desperately tried to right himself, but he was getting weaker by the second.

Throttle had the awful feeling the approaching men weren't about to dial 911.

"It's about time. Thought he would never drop. How much you give him anyway?"

"Enough to knock out a horse. This guy's tough."

"Sheesh, boss is going to be pissed. He wants them ready by Friday, not next June."

_What the hell..? Oh man... this isn't good._

"Hear that little mouse man? You're skills have been specially requested."

There was laughter. He could feel his numbed body being lifted from the ground and into someone's arms. None of the men at the table had been big enough to carry him, so whoever this was must have been waiting with the van. He recognised the voices around him though, despite how fuzzy his head felt, so he had no doubt it was them, those men Jim had introduced.

"Dump this one and we'll go for the last. Going to need all hands on deck for that big brute."

"Gotcha. Sweet dreams, little mouse."

More laughs, and the door of the van slid shut blocking out all traces of the night air. Throttle groaned, they hadn't been too gentle putting him inside it. He felt himself drifting, now, succumbing to the sedatives his drinks had been laced with. They had been well disguised in the sickly sweetness of the beverage that they were famously fond of. Too famous, it seemed, and somewhere inside his dulled mind he knew that the root beer had tasted just that little bit sweeter tonight.

The drugs coursing through his system had taken complete control. The last thing he remembered as he lay on the cold metal interior of the van was a vague smell of vomit, and the tangy musk of the white-furred mouse lying unconscious beside him.


	2. Family history

Had a little bit of writer's block this week, and so this chapter isn't really as good as it could have been. It's a short one, to get me back into the story. There is no link at all here to my other series (Scars).

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Chapter 2. Family history

Even down here there was beauty. A place of bliss in the deep depths that once held only darkness and despair. Now, as the sun finally dipped below the horizon of this world, the bright colours gave way to muted hues, and the still air filled with the glorious scent of the evening. Jasmine, night stock, evening primrose. It was her favourite time of day, where sufficient traces of light filtered down below the rim of the crater so that she could still see the garden, but late enough for her other senses to reap the reward of her hard work.

This was her labour of love. She had worked so hard to transform the raw shell beneath the surface from prison to paradise, and it was something so very special she would fight to protect it. It was a sad fact that she had to, too.

They would much rather use the space for something _more useful_ they said.

_More useful than what? Food? _

This wasn't just some piece of parkland, with neat lawns and lollipop trees. This was part of the whole, necessary system of providing the community with self-sufficiency. Sure, they didn't quibble when the harvest came around, and their plates were loaded with the best the garden had to offer. But before this day, when flowers and new growth provided their own delight, there were some down here that simply wanted rid.

They would rather use the space for workshops. They needed more ammo. They needed somewhere to work on their vehicles. To store junk. Blah blah blah. The kind of attitude the previous tenants had had. Waste what they had and take what they needed by force.

Heck, why not just bring back the whole slave mine and get it over with? she thought.

The woman turned away from her garden as the twilight deepened over the subterranean landscape. It wasn't safe to stay out here after dark, even with all the gun-toting men hanging around. They didn't make her feel particularly secure, even though they were supposed to be there to protect her. Being as she was one of the few females living here, tensions could ride pretty high some days. Usually around this time of year, before the harvest, when many of them were hungry... and not just for home-grown groceries.

_Men. If it wasn't for them I could spend the night out here too. _

As she wandered back into the cluster of dwellings deeper in the old mine the floral scent was replaced with the delicious aroma of roasting meats, the favoured fare of most down here. The rich, savoury odour made her breathe deeply, and sigh with the longing in her empty belly. Looking at her watch she realised she hadn't eaten at all since breakfast.

Her house was much like the others. Walls made of stone and scrap timber, and a wooden-framed roof with corrugated steel tiles. No windows – there was no need – just wooden slat shutters to close (and lock) for extra privacy, and security. It was ramshackle, definitely, but it was home. And it was better than what used to be here.

The granite-block castle that had once stood on this spot had long since been demolished, its battle-worn ruins cleared to make space for more... comfortable... abodes for her people. She hated that cold, grey monstrosity anyway, it stank of sweat and the other vile remnants of bodily fluids, so there was no chance she would have had it restored. It reminded her too much of _him_, too.

But he was long gone now, she had made damn sure of that. Ever since that day she had found out who her real father was, and who he really was, she had made it her personal mission to put right as many of his wrongs as she could. Even at the tender age of sixteen she had still been formidable, and, with a little help from a number of other people who didn't think it right that a giant pit full of slaves be allowed to exist, she had ousted her long lost parent from his kingdom and liberated the hundred or so remaining captives in the process.

_He was so full of himself he thought he was invincible. I guess power is in my blood after all. _

Many had stayed down there with her, as they had nowhere else to go. Their entire lives had been wiped away by that man and his cronies, but now at least they had some sort of future to look forward to. One that didn't involve starving, or being beaten or worked to death.

Madeline Cook was their saviour, and they respected her for it. The problem wasn't the ex-slaves, it was the ex-crew whom she had allowed to stay on the condition that they joined her new society and lived by its rules. A precious few had been looking for a way out of the sadistic, crime-fuelled existence they had become entwined in, and readily agreed. The rest... well, like the slaves they simply had no place else to go.

And she was too nice to just kick them out. Or so they thought.

That was over four years ago, the day she first met her father. Now the deep craters on Chicago's borders, known by many as 'the pits', had been opened up to both people and to light, and a whole new community had sprung up within. It wouldn't be long before they even had their own medical centre, albeit a small one, as there were a number of doctors and nurses remaining in the population.

For now though there was the garden, with its flowers and its food, and more importantly its extensive borders full of medicinal herbs to keep her people in good health. And she really did love that garden.

Madeline had reached her front door. After knocking in her usual manner (two hard taps followed by three quicker ones) to alert the occupant within it was her returning, she turned her key in the lock and stepped inside. You never could be too careful down here.

She was greeted by the pleasing smell of her favourite dish – leek and potato pie – and the warm embrace of George, the man with who she shared the little building. He was an excellent cook.

"Hey honey... you're just in time for dinner. Like always." He grinned. He could set his clock by this women; she always showed up just as he was about to serve whatever he had prepared that day.

"I told you, I can smell your cooking from the other end of the pits."

"Mine and everyone else's, hon."

Madeline smirked. Yes, it was true, but amongst the myriad of other dishes being prepared she could always tell which one was his amongst everything she was detecting. No one else used such an exotic range of herbs and spices as he. But then no one else was living with an expert in all things botanical.

"Any messages for me? Mom hasn't called in a while." It was just part of her evening routine to ask this, at least ever since they had successfully installed the wiring to connect them to the main telephone exchange. Not that the telecoms companies knew about it. There were a few liberties being taken down here, but seeing as the local government had failed to provide any sort of assistance to the people she had freed... they were owed something, for sure.

Without expecting any kind of answer, she had already started to ascend the stairwell to the upper floor where their (separate) bedrooms were.

"Yeah, actually. But not from your mom. Someone called... Chantelle. Yeah. Wants you to call her back."

Madeline froze mid-step.

"Did she... did she leave a number?" She was so surprised it had totally taken her breath away, and her response was barely above a whisper.

"Uh... yeah. You ok Lin? You know this... Chantelle woman?"

Know her. Yes. Want to know her...? Not if she had a choice. Up until four years ago she had wondered if one of them was adopted, they were so different. Of the two she had been leaning towards her, because the resemblance both in looks and character to their delicate-featured, mild-mannered mother had fallen almost entirely with the younger of them, herself.

Four years ago the missing piece of the family jigsaw had been found. She had been bitterly disappointed to find out Chantelle was not her half sister.

The only thing they shared was the grey of their irises and the shape of their hands. Not that you could tell, now. There was a gulf of about two hundred pounds that made any comparisons in shape very difficult. And Madeline's eyes were soft-edged, with a deep, silver ring around the pupil and outer edge of her iris. Her sisters were hard, cold, and lacking in any kind of dimension. Just like their father's.

"Unfortunately. I'll take it upstairs, if that's alright with you?"

George nodded. They had lived together for the last year, but they weren't a couple and they both agreed they had parts of their lives they would prefer to keep to themselves.

"No problem. Don't take too long... this pie's better when it's hot."

The man winked knowingly at her before she disappeared to her room, and then turned back to the stove in their miniscule kitchen. _Wonder what's got her so riled_? he thought, putting the already well-cooked pie back into the oven.

Upstairs the woman threw herself heavily down onto her single mattress and plucked the receiver from its cradle. It took her nearly ten minutes to get the courage to dial the number, and even when she did her hands were shaking. Their last chat hadn't exactly been a nice one.

The voice at the other end of the line was exactly the same. High pitched, whining almost. Grating. Wheedling. _She wants something, she always does, I just know it._

The conversation was brief and to the point, and after hanging up Madeline was wishing she hadn't returned the call. Whenever something major happened in her older sister's pathetic life it was always her she turned to for help, advice, or money. She had a funny feeling that this time she wanted more, and she would find out soon enough whatever this was.

She had just got this place looking, and feeling, as if it was something to be proud of. An achievement, something tangible. A vast departure from her crappy childhood. But the unease growing inside her was telling; no one made her feel so inconsequential as her older sister did, and with their past record all of her hard work was about to come under the harshest of critiques.

Chantelle was coming to visit.


	3. Bad deal

**WARNING:** This chapter contains some bad language.

* * *

Finally got around to naming chapters! More's to the point, I finally got around to actually writing the next chapter :)

* * *

Chapter 3. Bad deal.

Though it had taken a lot to knock him down, the drugs didn't keep him under for that long, not deeply anyway. As the sedative haze began to lift, and his senses slowly returned, several things became apparent.

Firstly, he was still in the van. The bare metal beneath his body, plus the heavy rattle of the old diesel engine, and the swaying sensation as his limp self responded to the inertia from the vehicle's movements, all but confirmed his immediate surroundings. Secondly, he was almost certainly a prisoner. His legs were bound at the ankles, by what he couldn't tell through the thick leather of his boots, though he suspected it was by the same materials as around his wrists. They were secured tightly behind his back with two thick-banded sets of cable ties. The kind the military might use for hostages.

He couldn't see a thing, as aside from his specs having vanished from his face, there was in their place now a heavy piece of material, a blindfold tied firmly behind his skull and then wound back under his chin and knotted. His abductors weren't taking any chances that was for sure. They also had made certain he wouldn't be calling out for help, and the immobile mouse knew from the pulling sensation on his whiskers that his snout had been secured shut with duct tape.

The third thing he was sure of was that the men had done a thorough job with their kidnapping mission. Somehow they had succeeded in subduing his larger friend and added him to the furry pile in the cargo hold of the vehicle, but how they had managed it he couldn't fathom. Modo had not drunk anywhere near as much root beer as he had done, preferring to take his time with his sodas to avoid the embarrassing side-effects of consuming so much carbonation. And with his larger size, and formidable strength...

_No wonder it took six of them to get him in here. I hate to think what state he's in now... let alone them._

He concluded that they must have had a backup plan to take down his older bro, and whatever it involved must have been bad because his stomach squirmed in anxiety. If they were capable of flooring the grey mouse, what chance did they have of getting out of this mess?

Assuming this was some kind of mess. He sincerely hoped this was just a... precaution... their reputation in the ring meaning no one was taking any chances with them. Not even if this was some weird sort of business deal.

A very hush-hush business deal.

_I guess they don't want us knowing where the competition hangs out. This must be big, or they wouldn't have gone to so much effort._

Beside him he could hear his friend breathing; deep and slow breaths that suggested he had indeed not fallen under the effects of the sedation. On his other side the white mouse was almost certainly still unconscious – he had drunk so many pints of their favoured refreshment it would be a miracle if he ever woke up. Assuming that the entire supply of root beer had been tampered with that is. There was no way Tom had sold them out like this. He wasn't even too sure Jim really had anything to do with it either.

Throttle slowly snaked his tail to his left, feeling gingerly with the appendage for signs that his bro was in one piece, or not. Thankfully the mouse didn't respond to his touch audibly, but he could feel him twitch slightly as his tail explored him.

There weren't any obvious signs of blood, he would have smelt it anyway, but once again it was apparent the men knew their targets well. Modo's legs and arms were not bound by mere cable ties – he would have been able to break those even under sedation – but by thick chains secured with padlocks.

_Oh man. Even his arm cannon._

They weren't going anywhere, so he had no choice but to just wait this thing out.

It wasn't long before the vehicle slowed, having finally reached its destination, and stopping with a harsh jerk as the driver pressed the brakes heavily against the foot well. It had been a long drive, and he was tired and keen to get the delivery completed as quickly as possible.

"Let's get this drop off done in record time boys, I need a warm bed and some serious shut eye."

The husky voice of the man penetrated through the divide between the cab and the rear compartment, and both of the conscious mice tensed as they realised they were soon to discover the purpose of their unexpected late night journey.

As soon as the rear door pulled open Modo began kicking out, determined to pay back the men for his rough treatment earlier on. They weren't stupid, though, whilst distracted by the activity at his feet the side door had been slid back, and someone had reached in and pressed a stun gun into the nape of his neck. With a sharp jolt as the volts coursed through him, the struggling mouse spasmed before slumping limply down again.

Throttle decided at that point it was not a good idea to try and fight his way out of this. He pretended to still be out cold, and felt himself being hauled over someone's sharp-boned shoulder and carried away from the van. He assumed the same was happening to Vinnie, and the freshly stunned Modo, though more than one person would be needed to carry that giant Martian.

The tan mouse hung there, seething, and contemplated some serious revenge for the forceful handling of his friend. _Give me a chance and i'll ram that stun gun where the sun don't shine, those filthy bastards._

His anger was further inflamed when he felt himself being dumped, literally, onto... or rather into... something with a hard floor. These men would not make very good couriers with the way they chucked their consignments around, he thought wryly. He heard the loud thump of something overhead, and then two other thuds nearby, followed by the heavy footfalls of the men fading into the distance. Another slam of a door, then there was nothing, just the sound of his own rattled breathing as he fought to bring his emotions under control.

Rage at being treated like a sack of rocks. Anxiety at the circumstances he was in now. And worry that his two best friends might be hurt. Vinnie drugged to the eyeballs, Modo zapped into oblivion. And himself, his arms aching from being wrenched behind him, his nose tingling from having struck the dirt when he fell. His body was starting to cramp, for he was folded up into a ball, and though he pushed to try and straighten himself out it was impossible. He couldn't see anything, but he didn't need to. He knew he had been locked inside some kind of metal box.

_Thank goodness i'm not claustrophobic. _

He just hoped this box wasn't air tight.

* * *

"Hey boss, thought you'd wanna know your cargo's secured in the bay as you asked, and now my boys and I are clocking off."

"Excellent work, Hunter. You got all three of them?"

"Yeah boss. Took some doing getting that big one in, but we managed."

"Good. Take the rest of the day, and report in tomorrow a.m. for your next assignment."

As the line went dead he sat back in his leather armchair and smiled, pressing his fingers together in stifled excitement. Abe 'boss man' Jones, mid-fifties, but with a vitality to match that of a much younger man, had been waiting for this day for the last three months. He had heard fourth-hand about a trio of young bikers who had marched into a bar in southern Minnesota one day, and claimed the top spot on the fist-fighters leader-board the next. Third-hand he learned they were from Chicago, drifting around looking for work, or a new life, or something. An old friend of his had expanded on this a little. Turned out these boys were from further out of town than just the windy city.

Now, at last, he would get to see for himself just who these young upstarts were, and how the hell they had managed to pummel just about any man dumb enough to step into the ring with them.

Now that he had them in his grasp, he would be making sure that it was for him they fought, and no one else. They would make him a rich man, a richer man even, and if they refused... Well, no matter, he thought, because they wouldn't be returning to Minnesota, or anywhere else for that fact, any time soon. Either they were his, or they were no one's.

He felt confident he could make them an offer they couldn't refuse. Fight for him, or die. Fight for their lives. From what he had heard, they practically already did.

_Must have been some war, or something, wherever they're from. Trained in combat, no doubt about it._

It was still early, and he hadn't yet finished his morning coffee. His acquisition team had driven through the night to make sure they made their drop off on time, and he knew he had made the right choice when hiring them just because of that. They weren't just thugs, even if Hunter insisted on speaking like some high-school street punk. They had pulled off a few small-time robberies already before he offered them a more... secure... means of employment, not to mention some more high-tech ops they had performed involving swiping data from some high profile companies for interested parties. No, this crew had brains, and they knew exactly how to play out a situation to get what they wanted.

Last night they had pretended to be sponsors interested in supporting those three rodent-like hotshots in their new career, even getting that gullible old sheriff to believe their good intentions. It was brilliant, he mused, how well they had pulled it off.

_They'll be paid well, especially when my new fighters start earning their keep._

Abe downed the last of his drink and straightened up, running his long fingers through his neat-cut grey hair to smooth it out. There was plenty going for this man; he had kept his thick hair, though he had let it go silver as he didn't believe in dyeing it, and still had a good figure that hadn't succumbed to age. He didn't drink, or smoke, and indulged in a reasonable workout routine to keep his edge. He looked good, and felt good, and his aura oozed with confidence. It also made him a hit with the ladies.

There were plenty of women wanting in on his life, but he didn't have any desires to commit to anything just yet. His business was his empire, and that was more than enough for him right now.

Eight o'clock. Still too early for some of his workers. They wouldn't be impressed with being torn from their fry-ups at this hour, even if most of the working world was already on the road. This was the thing with Abe, he knew that if he treated his men well they would reward him with their dedication. Give and take, that's how he operated.

And now he had three more to add to his collection. He would give them their choice, a new life with him, and in return he would take away everything of their previous existence, and any money that they subsequently made for his business. It was a fair trade, he thought, not too bad a deal really - though from experience he was sure they wouldn't see it like that. At least not at first.

_But soon they will; soon they will fight for me. Or else._

Another hour before he made his introductions. Just enough time to read the paper and do the crossword.

Abe smirked, this was just the sort of thing a typical man of his generation would do before work, even though his line of employment was anything but typical.


	4. Road trip

Firstly this chapter does contain some bad language - so just a little warning in advance. Secondly, I suspect I will have to upgrade the rating of this story to M, perhaps quite soon, and probably without any further warning. So, if it disappears from the main screen you know where to look.

On another note, as you might have noticed I am now in the process of writing two stories, which is dividing my attentions and pushing me on the limits of my multitasking and imagination. Please be patient if either story goes quiet for a while, I may just have writer's block or I may just need time to think, or get back into the right mode for whichever story. It's getting a little easier, but not greatly.

Also, I am going to aim to alternate between the two stories, but they might only be a day apart, or a few hours apart. If I have updated this one it doesn't mean I haven't updated Scars recently! Saying that, Scars got an update yesterday, and before that on Friday, and things (believe it or not) are really hotting up, so to speak, and I don't want you to miss anything.

But now, another JD chapter for you to enjoy, kinda. Nothing exciting, not yet.

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Chapter 4. Road trip.

"_See you in a couple of days, sis."_

A few hours after hanging up the phone and her case was packed. There wasn't that much to put in it, really, aside from a change of clothes or two. She stood there for a while at the bathroom mirror, assessing the state of her over-bleached, shoulder length hair which was currently tied in its normal way – in two pig tails. Her dark roots were already showing, but she wasn't in the mood to deal with that right now.

Chantelle tossed the home hair-colour kit into her toiletry bag, adding to the usual accessories within. Her toothbrush, battered and with only half its bristles remaining, was the last thing to join it, along with the flattened remains of a tube of toothpaste. Oral hygiene had never really been her thing, much like her father.

Wandering around her dingy room for one last time to ensure she hadn't missed anything, the woman stuffed the toiletries into her small roller-wheel case and zipped it up for the final time. This motel had been her home for the last month or so, a cheap establishment that didn't' exactly cater to high class customers. Most of her neighbours had been one-night only visitors, tired long-distance commuters needing a bed, or other randoms just wanting somewhere private to do their business. Couples, adulterous or otherwise, prostitutes, runaways. One night there had actually been a fairly ordinary family, clearly caught short in need of a place to stop en-route to somewhere much more suitable.

The place was dire, and she was glad to be leaving. Not even the swimming pool had provided any entertainment, for it had been drained months ago to be cleaned and now was filled with old shopping carts, rubbish, and the remnants of numerous illegal activities. It would take a haz-mad team to get this pool back into public service.

She pulled back the thick, smoke-yellowed curtains to peer out the window. Any minute now and her ride would show up, she hoped. Still no sign. In frustration Chantelle threw herself back down on the bed, which she hadn't bothered to make up, and lay on her back with her arms crossed.

_If he's late again I swear I will bust him in._

Her rising temper quickly faded at the sound of the car horn outside. Grabbing her bag and yanking open the door, the relieved woman practically dived at the vehicle and barely even looked back long enough to shut the door. The key card was been left on the desk, so she had no need to stay a moment longer.

"Rob, glad you showed. Get me outta here quick before I puke at the sight of this dump."

The man stepping out of his car, a modern-looking sedan with signs of wear. Second hand luxury, it was the best he could afford. The man himself fitted into the same theme – nice looking clothes that were almost certainly from the likes of Goodwill. His lacking finances didn't mean he had to be unkempt (unlike the woman he was collecting). He had dark, short cut hair, was clean shaven, and his soft brown eyes held an allure all their own. At over six feet, and with a lean, muscular body, no one really cared about the hand-me-down goods he possessed. A six pack more than made up for it, apparently.

"Nice to see you too, Chan. What, am I some kind of chauffer?" Rob frowned as his passenger shut the car door without having even asked if he would mind helping with her suitcase. _Right, talking to myself again obviously. Why the heck do I bother?_

It had been a few years since he last saw this woman, but clearly time had not changed her – at least not for the better. In his youth he had lost track of the amount of times she had asked, begged or demanded his attentions, and for many years he spent his time as her own personal taxi service. She had never bothered to learn how to drive, preferring to twist the arms of willing males to get her where she needed, and rarely even offered money for gas.

It had been that behaviour that had caused them to split. There was only so much a guy could take around someone like her. _Manipulative bitch._

Then, out of the blue, she had called him. Of course she had turned on her old charm, the tears, the pleading, childlike voice – you name it, the works.

Rob had agreed this one last time to help her out, if anything just to get her off the phone. If he hadn't he felt sure she would have rung him night and day until he gave in anyway.

"Alright then, Chan" he said, climbing behind the wheel, "Where to? Better not be f****** Texas again, you know I can't stand the heat."

"Eeww, no, not there. Chicago. That's where I want to go."

The man raised an eye brow but didn't question it. From what he had heard the last time this woman had been in that city all hell had broken loose, and she had fled the state with her tail between her legs. Or something. It had been something to do with family, anyway, and he guessed it probably was this time around.

"Fine, but I don't care how much you pout I get to choose the tunes alright? And the rest stops. I ain't going to stop every ten minutes just so you can check your mascara."

Chantelle pulled a tongue, but muttered thanks. "Don't know what i'd do without you, Rob."

"Grow up, i'd hope. This is the last time, I swear to god. I have a life of my own to lead you know."

Rob had grown up in the same neighbourhood as his passenger, and went to the same school. He was in the year above her, and on the hockey team, and from the moment he saw that mousey-haired girl with her pink pom-poms and sports vest, cheering on his team, he knew. She was madly in love with him. Like, a total stalker.

But at fifteen he was flattered by the attention, and she wasn't too bad looking. Slim, big busted, bursting with life and overflowing with a bubbly personality. She was popular enough for him not to be ribbed about her infatuation, and so after a lengthy period of glancing across the dining hall at each other, he finally plucked up the courage to ask her out.

They dated for a while, on and off, her obsessive nature always leading them into fights and tantrums and dramas. After high school they had drifted, him going to college and her... doing whatever, he didn't know – nothing useful that's for sure. Then when he returned home for summer break she had pounced on him, and he was still unattached. And lonely.

And so it went on for a while longer, until this whole thing with her sister and Chicago came about.

Madeline was some eight years younger, and almost a complete opposite to her sibling. In looks, and personality. Quiet, reclusive, bullied at school. She wasn't bad looking either, but very thin and delicate featured, with heavy bags under her eyes that the kid didn't bother covering with make-up.

_She probably was just misunderstood, just a pity things weren't different for her._

"How's Madeline?" He asked almost a little too abruptly, as he thought maybe as they had several hours stuck together whilst he drove her cross country he might as well make conversation.

The woman wrinkled her nose a little before answering. "Fine, probably, I didn't ask. I'll know soon enough – i'm going to visit her."

"She's in Chicago? Still?" Rob was confused. The last thing he had heard was she had gone out west somewhere, and no one had seen or heard from her in several years now.

"Yeah, still." The shortness of the answer was indicative of the bitterness Chantelle felt over this fact. If it hadn't been for her sister then she wouldn't have had to leave the city in the first place.

"Right, sore point huh? I don't quite get it, Chan, if you hate her so much why are you bothering to go see her? It's an awful lot of effort just to go have a fight when you could just have it out over the phone."

Chantelle huffed and turned to stare out of the window. Just because she had asked for the man's help didn't mean she had to tell him everything.

"Just leave it, OK? It's private." She mumbled, trying not to sound too ungrateful for the man dropping everything at the last minute to go on a road trip with her.

Rob rolled his eyes and turned up the stereo. He wasn't really that interested by the drama going on in his ex-girlfriends life, but it would have been nice to know what the hell was so damn urgent that she had to be in Chicago by the end of the week.

_If it's anything like last time i'll probably find out on CNN. _

"Have it your way." Rob muttered, his favourite track coming on air and taking his mind off the dour-faced female in the seat next to him.

They pulled into a motel late that night, still around four or five hours out east of the city limits. Chantelle had accepted, rather begrudgingly, that they would be renting separate rooms for the night, and also that they would be setting out at a reasonable time. Rob knew the woman hated getting up early, but he wanted to drop her off and still be able to make decent headway back home before having to stop again.

Luckily, for both of them, the man was owed some time off from work, having pulled more than his fair share of overtime in recent weeks, so it wasn't a big deal taking the days at short notice. He worked in logistics, and though he hadn't climbed the managerial ranks he was still well-known, well-liked and trusted within the company. His boss had been nagging him for weeks to take a break, and was more than happy for his impromptu road trip to go ahead.

However, Rob didn't want to waste his free time chaperoning needy college drop-outs halfway around the country; he wanted to get back home, to his wife and his two children, and spend some long overdue quality time with his family. The family he had not told Chantelle about.

In the morning, after a quick stop for a luxurious breakfast of coffee and doughnuts (for Chantelle anyway, who thought any and all food was a luxury to be taken full advantage of), they headed west again. The traffic was moving well, and by the early afternoon the man had dropped off his passenger at yet another motel, and drove away quickly before she could change her mind about letting him go.

_Thank goodness for that. I don't know what's worse, her whining voice or hours and hours of moody silence._

They hadn't exactly spent their time together reminiscing about the good old days. Probably because they never really happened. Not in his mind, anyway.

The bleach-blonde woman stared at the back of the sedan as it pulled out of the car park. If she hadn't had such important things weighing heavily on her mind she might have been upset to see him go.

She entered her room and set down her case. It was just like all the others, aside from the colour scheme, and she sighed softly taking it all in.

Just a few more days, she thought, and maybe I will finally have a place to call my own.

_A place that by rights is mine already. _

She opened her purse, its cracked, old leather suggesting it had seen better days, and pulled out a small envelope and then its contents.

Chantelle lay back on her bed and gazed lovingly at the wallet sized picture. Beside her was a folded piece of paper, the delicate handwriting written on it just showing on one corner. It said 'To my dear daughters..."

* * *

Note: I recognise that the majority of my readers are from the USA, and I so try my very best to use words and such directed to that audience - but in this case I had forgotten something. I suspect 'toiletry bag' is more commonly referred to as 'wash bag' or something. Hey I try my best, i've watched a lot of American t.v. shows but I am still from the UK. Oh and the Texas reference - no offence to anyone from that region but I went there last year and didn't have much fun with the heat. It was there I discovered a lot more phrases I didn't even realise were a British thing, lol.


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